It was a field-day, his servant said, and his master was out with his
troop; but he expected him in very shortly. Captain Forrester was
waiting breakfast for him up stairs.

As I entered the room, its occupant turned his head languidly on the
sofa-cushion which supported it; but when he saw it was a stranger, sat
up, and, on hearing my name, actually rose and came toward me.

"Livingstone will be charmed to find you here, Mr. Hammond," he said, in
a voice that, though slightly affected and _traînante_, was very
musical. "I don't know if he ever mentioned Charley Forrester to you,
who must do the honors of the barrack-room in his absence?"

I had heard of him very often; and, though my expectations as to his
personal appearance had been raised, I own the first glance did not
disappoint them. He was about three-and-twenty then, rather tall, but
very slightly built; his eyes long, sleepy, of a violet blue; features
small and delicately cut, with a complexion so soft and bright that his
silky, chestnut mustache hardly saved the face from effeminacy; his
hands and feet would have satisfied the Pacha of Tebelen at once as to
his purity of race; indeed, though Charley was not disposed to
undervalue any of his own bodily advantages, I imagine he considered his
extremities as his strong point. His manner was very fascinating, and,
with women, had a sort of caress in it which is hard to describe, though
even with _them_ he seldom excited himself much, preferring,
consistently, the passive to the active part in the conversation.
Indeed, his golden rule was the Arabic maxim, _Agitel lil
Shaitan_--Hurry is the Devil's--so, in the flirtations which were the
serious business of his life, he always let his fish hook themselves,
just exerting himself enough to play them afterward.